And the Band Played On
by Hans the bold
Summary: Continuing the story line begun in Walking Away, Eric and Annie Camden must come to terms with the departure of their daughter. Rated PG-13 for its attempt at a realistic portrayal of a disintegrating family.
1. Default Chapter

When I wrote Walking Away, I honestly hadn't planned a sequel; as a result the narrative was intended to wrap up nicely, the point of the story hopefully having been made. But requests for more are hard to ignore (Hans the bold famous saying #247), so I decided to continue with the story line. As time goes by, it will more and more diverge from what we see on TV; this is natural, since the show's producers (who own all the rights to these characters, by the way) and I appear to have rather different opinions about what constitutes drama. As before, I have to thank all the posters on the 7th Heaven boards at Mighty Big TV (http://www.mightybigtv.com) for their support and inspiration, as well as their refreshing unwillingness to cut this or any other TV show any more slack than it deserves. The title of this story is taken from the book by the late Randy Shilts that documents the failure of the American government to address the exploding AIDS epidemic in the 1980's. Since I feel that the writers of 7th Heaven have displayed a similar blindness to the reality of spousal abuse and child abuse, I hope that those who have suffered because of the disease that took Mr. Shilts from us too soon will forgive my indulgence in respectfully putting his title to use here.  
  
There are two things I believe about 7th Heaven that we must keep in mind: first, the Camdens are a prime example of a completely dysfunctional family hiding behind protestations of functionality, and second, that the show could be good drama if the writers were willing to make it such. These two opinions guided me in the following tale.  
  
PART 1  
  
Look now. Look hard and deep into their eyes. They look back at you, their faces a wonder and a miracle of love and trust. And as they look, do you wonder what they see? What are you, to them?  
  
If you can remember, you might know this.  
  
Maybe.  
  
But time obscures things. Age and experience can erase as much wisdom as they bring. And you may have forgotten what it meant to look back, to be the one looking up instead of the one looking down.  
  
And when it happens that their eyes and their face are not there anymore, you will wonder why. When all that looks back at you is a memory of who and what once was, you will ask the questions you must.  
  
Eric Camden stood at the top of the stairs. He looked down the long hall, to the door of the bedroom at the end, and he remembered her. Dancing, skipping, a smile on her face, a hug and a kiss and all that love that was his daughter.  
  
That had been his daughter.  
  
Don't think like that.  
  
Where is she?  
  
Don't think it .  
  
Is she all right?  
  
Don't think it.  
  
Why couldn't she say goodbye?  
  
#  
  
A day, and no word. Another. And the days were like a fragmented haze, held together only by routine; fitful sleep, awakening too early, showering and shaving and dressing and going down to the church and wondering as he did whether when he got home anyone would be there.  
  
Do your job. You have to do your job. If you do your job then maybe, for a moment or two, you won't think about her, won't think about home.  
  
Home.  
  
It had been a refuge once, for Eric Camden. It had been a place he could go after a day ministering to the needs of others, of seeing their grief or their anger or their pain, of trying to help even when sometimes he knew it was hopeless, but trying, because this was what God had called him to do.  
  
Home.  
  
A place where there was Annie, his dear, loving Annie, with her smile and her embrace, and a place where there was always the sound, the noise, of children, his children, their children. Always with a new project or a new story or even a new problem, and they would come to him and they would show him and they would ask him and talk to him and it was meaning, all of it. It was purpose and it sustained him.  
  
Home.  
  
Silent now. Was he alone?  
  
No. They were here, in the home, but there was no noise, no happy prattle. One would pass another in the hall, silently, on their way to this room or that, perhaps to study or to find something to eat or just to go to the bathroom.  
  
Silence. Even at night, even in bed with Annie beside him, silence.  
  
Only the voices of memory.  
  
#  
  
The phone, in his office, ringing. He had been trying to write a sermon that would explain what he had failed to explain last week. We are all the prodigal son. We have all squandered something and needed forgiveness. We have all crossed a line sometime, with our vanity, our fear. I have crossed it, many times. And we are all the father of the prodigal son, and the brother. We must forgive, all of us. We must decide that our love is greater than our faults, and greater than the faults of others. We must come together with the ones we love.  
  
The phone in his office, ringing.  
  
Answering.  
  
Mary, her voice trembling.  
  
She's gone. Lucy's gone. I'm sorry, Dad.  
  
Home then. Quickly home. And Annie already there, and Mary, sitting on the couch, her face pale, like a shock victim.  
  
Annie, watching her, watching him, saying nothing.  
  
Tears in Mary's eyes. Mary looking up at him as he stepped into the room. Mary's voice.  
  
"I couldn't stop her."  
  
He began to speak then. He remembered this clearly. He began to speak and then there was Annie, rising, just walking away. And he, following her, trying to talk and getting no answer.  
  
She doesn't talk. Not for days now. Please, Annie, why won't you talk to me? I'm right here, lying beside you. I need to talk. Lucy is my daughter too.  
  
Eric reached out to touch his wife. Nothing.  
  
#  
  
They had called Sergeant Michaels and he had come right away, that first day. He talked to Mary first, in another room, quietly. Then he had come out with her, and he had sat on the couch and had talked to the three of them.  
  
"I don't think Lucy's in any danger," he said. "From what Mary tells me she left of her own volition, alone. She didn't seem irrational."  
  
Silence. Eric remembered looking over at Annie, who was staring at Michaels.  
  
"You have to find her," she whispered.  
  
"I'll file a missing person report and get her into the database," Michaels said. "But since she's an adult and there is no evidence of foul play, I can't do much more right now."  
  
"What do we do?" Eric asked.  
  
Michaels sighed. "You wait and you always have someone here in case she tries to contact you. Lucy's a smart girl. She knows how to reach you if she gets into trouble. She probably just needs some time alone to sort out her feelings. It sounds as though there have been some problems here."  
  
With anyone other than Michaels, Eric would have snapped back. This was his family and it was a good family. He had counseled too many families with real problems, and knew what to look for. But he had also known the policeman a long time and knew the man had a keen eye for seeing trouble.  
  
And lately, too, he had begun to wonder if his own family was so free of troubles after all. Eric sighed, nodded, lowered his head.  
  
And heard Annie speak.  
  
"What do you mean, 'problems'?"  
  
Eric rubbed his brow. He was beginning to feel the exhaustion of the day.  
  
"There was some dispute over the apartment you are finishing over the garage," Michaels said. "Mary tells me that Lucy left over this. She says that Lucy felt the punishment she and the others were given was unfair."  
  
"It was perfectly fair," Annie said. "They needed a lesson in respect."  
  
Eric looked up now. Michaels was relaxed, watching Annie. Annie was glaring back at him. A moment passed.  
  
"I see," Michaels said then.  
  
"There are no problems here," Annie said. "Just bring my daughter home, and everything will be fine."  
  
Michaels looked at Eric, then back at Annie. "We will try and find her," he told them. "But Lucy isn't a minor. We can't force her to come home."  
  
Annie opened her mouth, closed it. Michaels looked at her. Her face was suddenly pale, as though she had been slapped. Eric reached out to her, but she pulled away. Then her gaze fell and she spoke softly.  
  
"Please. You have to."  
  
That had been the first day, the first hours.  
  
It was silent now, in his room, in his bed. Annie hadn't moved in some time, the only motion the slight rising and falling from her breathing. Was she asleep? Eric tried to be as still as he could, lest his motion disturb her.  
  
An hour passed, marked by the clock by the bed. The ceiling did not change and he realized that he couldn't stand looking up at it anymore.  
  
Maybe if he got up quietly, he could go downstairs, eat something, rest on the couch. He could get away. He did, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and as he did the thought came unbidden.  
  
Is this what Lucy had thought that morning? 


	2. Part 2

PART 2  
  
Annie didn't move.  
  
He was there, beside her, in the bed. Eric. She felt him get up, heard him step out of the room, away from her, leaving her alone in the bed.  
  
Fine.  
  
Inevitable.  
  
Those who love you always leave you. You grow old and you grow useless and they all go away. They go away without thanking you for what you have done for them, for the weight as you carried them and the pain as you delivered them. Or they give more to their vision, to their career, to their dreams than they do to you.  
  
They love God, preach about God's love for you, and then God takes you mother away. He takes your father.  
  
Annie closed her eyes.  
  
I hate God. I hate everything. I hate what I am.  
  
It was hard to think clearly anymore. She didn't know when this had begun; maybe it had always been this way. Maybe it was when they had said "menopause" and she had come home and looked in the mirror and wondered who this old woman was who was staring back at her. Or maybe it was when she had started to look at her children and had begun to realize that there was nothing that was hers, hers alone, that she had done because she was Annie. Everything was her children, her husband. Everything was other people and more and more those other people just saw her as a utensil.  
  
Maybe. It was hard to think. She just wanted to scream.  
  
The world was moving around her in fast forward. She trembled in terror of it. She had to get control, had to act, had to rein in the chaos.  
  
She thought of Lucy. What had been that look in her daughter's eyes?  
  
Hate? Does she hate me? I have given my life for her and now she hates me?  
  
No.  
  
It was quiet as Annie lay, alone. Outside, she heard a car drive by, the sound growing and then fading.  
  
No.  
  
Lucy's look had not been hate. Something else, but not hate.  
  
Annie closed her eyes, whimpering softly in the maelstrom.  
  
* * *  
  
Another day.  
  
She was cooking when he got home. It had been a long day, longer still after a sleepless night. Eric moved to her, tried to kiss her gently, the way he remembered doing long ago. She pushed him away.  
  
"I'm busy."  
  
He nodded. Her tone was firm and he was too tired to fight. Instead he took his briefcase to his office and then returned, standing in the doorway, watching her. Maybe if he just stood here, she would decide to talk.  
  
He watched for a while; she did not seem to notice him.  
  
Then Ruthie came down the stairs, walked over to her mother.  
  
"Hi. Smells good. What is it?"  
  
"Dinner," Annie answered.  
  
Ruthie nodded. "Can I help?"  
  
"No."  
  
Annie moved away, to the sink. Ruthie watched her for a moment, then walked over to him.  
  
"It smells good," she said.  
  
Eric nodded, looking down into his young daughter's face. She had a bright smile and he tried to smile back.  
  
"It does, doesn't it?"  
  
"It'll be nice to have a real meal again," Ruthie said. "I'm getting tired of pizza every night."  
  
Annie heard; she must have. But she did not react.  
  
Eric looked down at Ruthie. There was the sudden need to explain, to try and explain, to make sure she was all right. She was young and perhaps she was afraid just now.  
  
"I'm sure Lucy will be home soon," he said to her.  
  
Am I lying? he thought.  
  
Annie looked over at him from where she was chopping carrots for a salad. Ruthie shrugged.  
  
"It's all right," she said. "I like having my own room."  
  
Eric watched his young daughter for a moment as the words sank in, and he felt himself go tense. He looked up; Annie was working again.  
  
Perhaps it was the tone of Ruthie's words. Perhaps it was something else.  
  
He didn't know. There was a lot he didn't know anymore. But after some time he did realize one thing. Annie was preparing Lucy's dishes, all of them. Her favorites.  
  
The smells, rich and thick with the memory of her, finally drove him to retreat.  
  
#  
  
That night, when it was dark and quiet and late, Annie sat quietly by the window, her gaze on the street below. Eric watched her for a moment, then spoke softly.  
  
"I enjoyed dinner," he said. "I think everyone did."  
  
She looked at him, didn't answer right away. But at least she looked.  
  
Then she spoke.  
  
"Not everyone."  
  
He nodded, went to her, wrapped his arm around her. She didn't respond, but didn't pull away. He kept his voice gentle.  
  
"I'm sure she's all right," he said. "They've got her name in the missing persons database now."  
  
Annie didn't answer. Her gaze was outside.  
  
Eric didn't move, didn't say anything more. He realized he had spoken as much to himself as to her. He had called Michaels this afternoon; nothing. But Lucy's name was in the system, in the computer. If she showed up in the hospital, or ....  
  
Don't think it.  
  
She hasn't. She won't.  
  
Annie spoke then. Maybe it was to him and maybe it was to the night; he couldn't tell.  
  
"She's going to come home. She's going to come home and it will be all right. She'll say she's sorry."  
  
He tightened his embrace, then felt his gut tighten, and he wondered if he should say anything. Annie was so calm now, so peaceful. And she was talking. But her last statement felt wrong to him.  
  
Aren't there times when it isn't so important to be right? Why can't we just get Lucy home and just talk to her?  
  
Eric said nothing. He could address that later. It was too comfortable, this moment of peace, too rare. He held his wife in his arms for as long as he could.  
  
* * *  
  
The days were long. One seemed to blend into another and it was hard to plan things for her class and to make sure that when Lucy came back, things would be ready for her. That meant making sure that the house was clean, that her room was clean, that all her favorite foods were in the pantry and the refrigerator. It meant making sure that someone was always at home to let her in, and Annie drilled each of them on just how to handle Lucy, just how to talk to her.  
  
Make sure she's safe.  
  
Call the police, but don't let her know that you are doing it.  
  
Call me right away, but don't let her know that either.  
  
Don't let her leave. Do whatever you have to to keep her here.  
  
There was some protest to this last, from Ruthie and Mary. Annie looked at them both closely as they spoke.  
  
"How are we supposed to do that?"  
  
"I don't care. But you keep her here, do you understand?"  
  
Mary looked at Ruthie. Ruthie spoke.  
  
"She's bigger than I am. If she decides to go again, how am I supposed to stop her?"  
  
Annie felt her breathing quicken, felt as the air began to rush in and out, felt herself go tense. And she felt as it all seemed so fast around her, the world and the air and the sudden anger. She spoke slowly.  
  
"I said I didn't care. You keep her here. Do you understand me?"  
  
Ruthie watched her for a moment, then nodded. She didn't look bothered; that was good. Ruthie was a smart, strong girl. She had a good, level head. She would think of something if she had to.  
  
Mary? Mary was an unknown. She didn't do much, save to sit around the house. This was good in that she at least would be here when Lucy came back, and Annie was sure she had learned her lesson and would not let her errant sister get away again.  
  
Because Lucy was coming home. As Mary and Ruthie left to go upstairs and she sat alone in the living room, Annie reflected on this. Lucy would come home. It was just a matter of time. She was a Camden and this was her home. She would come home and she would apologize and Annie would make sure she meant it, but she would, and then she would be home, and she would go back to living in her room and worrying about boys and her hair and her clothes and it would all be all right again, just like it had been before.  
  
It had to be.  
  
Annie turned her head a bit, looked at the large living room window, the one that looked outside. It was danger out there; the world was chaotic and uncertain and the only way to stop it was to keep control. She had seen too many people whose lives were falling apart to think otherwise, too many parents whose children did things that were terrifying and dangerous.  
  
You have to keep them at home. You have to keep them safe.  
  
Daddy never kept me safe.  
  
This last startled her. But it was true, too. He hadn't been there, hadn't intervened when she slid into trouble. Annie closed her eyes, remembering the drugs, the highs, and the terrible way it had ended.  
  
Not this time. Not this time. This time it was going to be all right. Lucy was going to come home and she was going to make it all right, was going to make her all right.  
  
It was quiet in the living room, that good calm that meant that all the kids were all right. She just needed to stay here, stay in control.  
  
Because it is going to be all right, you see. 


	3. Part 3

Days passed.  
  
Annie seemed more fragile now. Eric could sense it and so could the kids. They were around less than they used to be; even Robbie was out all the time, spending most of his time with Joy. After school Simon would go out with a few friends, always leaving out the back after clearing it with him, never with Annie. Even Matt was spending most of his evenings at the library studying. Mary stayed near the house, but she was quiet, like her mother.  
  
Only Ruthie seemed like she had been before. If anything, she seemed happier.  
  
That's good. Annie needs her kids to be happy.  
  
I need Annie to be happy.  
  
He had taken a photograph of Lucy, had made fliers, had distributed them. Hamilton had taken some to give to his parishioners, and after a few phone calls to a few colleagues Eric had managed to get them up in San Francisco and Los Angeles and Sacramento. Not many, but some. It was hard, because it wasn't a kidnapping and there wasn't much the police could do. There was the runaway hotline, too. He had called them and they were kind as he spoke to them, and they took his address and his phone number.  
  
He told these things to Annie, and she nodded and smiled. He wondered if she had heard him.  
  
"She's coming home, Eric," she said sometimes. "She's going to come home."  
  
But that was all she said about it.  
  
He was in his office at home when the phone rang.  
  
#  
  
Every phone call made him jump these days. Usually, of course, it was for someone else; Joy for Robbie, a friend for Simon, a study partner for Matt. Never the call he wanted, that Annie wanted.  
  
He picked up.  
  
"Mr. Camden?"  
  
The voice, familiar.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"It's Wilson. Mary called and left me a message. Is she there?"  
  
Wilson. It took a few seconds to register. He and Mary had broken up. They had been engaged, and then something had happened and she had returned.  
  
Not ready. She had returned and he had watched her and part of him had been so happy, but part of him had wondered if she had really changed. Is she ready for what the world demand?  
  
"Just a moment," he said.  
  
He found Mary, gave her the phone. She smiled widely and took it, pressed it against her ear. Then she disappeared upstairs.  
  
Should I follow? Eric wondered. There was the urge to, but he suppressed it.  
  
She's an adult. It wouldn't be right.  
  
He went back to his office. Letting go, he thought as he sat down again. It's the hardest thing we ever do. But we have to.  
  
How many times had he told that to people? How many times had he tried to deny he would ever have to tell it to himself? He stared at the pictures on his desk. There were more of them at the church, of course; every child, every age. Even one of Robbie. There was something about Robbie he couldn't turn his back on.  
  
And one of he and Annie, too, smiling, his arms around her.  
  
He hummed, remembering an old song.  
  
"When the world and I were young, just yesterday,  
  
"Life was such a simple game, a child could play ...."  
  
Yelling.  
  
He sat up with a start.  
  
Upstairs.  
  
He hurried.  
  
The hallway.  
  
Mary by the stairs. Tears in her eyes. Opposite her, Annie. The phone in Annie's hand. Annie's voice.  
  
"I said you had enough time! We need this phone free!"  
  
"It was Wilson! I need to talk to him!"  
  
Eric stepped between them. He raised his hands. As he opened his mouth to speak Annie was yelling back.  
  
"I told you about the phone! We need it free! Don't you listen?"  
  
"Please," Eric said. "Let's calm down ...."  
  
Mary shouted past him.  
  
"Why? You know she won't call! Are we supposed to put our lives on hold just because Lucy ran away? Do I have to go away again to get what I want too?"  
  
He glanced over at Annie as these words hit home. Her face was going from red to white with fury.  
  
"You are never going!" she screamed. "You are never going away! Do you hear me? Do you hear me?"  
  
Mary froze, then stepped back as though she had been struck. Annie was silent now, suddenly, her face still pale and her hands trembling. Eric tried to speak again but found that the words would not come. And then Annie took a step forward, then another. Mary backed away, even as Annie spoke again.  
  
"Oh my God ... Mary .... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Here, take the phone. Please. Call Wilson back. Talk as long as you want. Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry."  
  
She had reached Mary now, was holding her close, holding her tightly. And Annie was weeping, too, and some of the color had returned to her face, and Mary was holding her mother and looking at him as he watched them both.  
  
Eric wondered what had happened. He watched as Annie held Mary close, then as she gave her the phone and told her to call Wilson, to call him now, that it was all right. And Mary took the phone, tentatively, as though she was waiting for another explosion, but it didn't come; Annie merely went downstairs, quietly, saying nothing.  
  
Maybe it's a first step, Eric thought finally. Maybe she sees that she needs help.  
  
Maybe.  
  
* * *  
  
Annie thought for a long time. There was a lot to think about.  
  
Why am I so angry? Why is there always this trouble in our house?  
  
She knew that her husband was watching her, that her children were too.  
  
Why are they afraid? Why are they unhappy?  
  
She began to clean the kitchen. It was an old job that never seemed to get done; when you finished there was always the next meal to just dirty it up again. But it was a good job, too, because when she did it she could think.  
  
Why did it all go wrong? Why is life so hard to bear?  
  
There has to be a reason.  
  
And then it came to her.  
  
A cause. A single cause.  
  
So simple, really. It hadn't been before, not while she waited. But it was clear now and there was no going back. There was Mary, her child. Matt, her child. Simon and Ruthie and the twins. Her children. She had carried each of them inside her, had felt the pain and the joy at their births, had tried her best with each of them. And they were good, too. Despite all their troubles they were good, and she could forgive them. She had forgiven them, just recently, after Matt and Simon and Ruthie had appropriated the garage apartment. She had forgiven Mary when she had returned, and when Sam and David were old enough to make mistakes she would forgive them too.  
  
One bad apple ruins the barrel.  
  
You have to cut out an infection before it spreads. Because if it spreads, then there is no hope. Like a cancer. Remember what happened to your mother?  
  
There is only one way to save them. It's clear to you now. No matter what you feel, no matter how hard it is, you have to do this. You have to do it despite the pain and despite the fear. It's the only way things will ever be normal again. They will all leave you and they will all hate you if you don't stop this now.  
  
Later, Eric was there, in the bedroom, sitting. He was watching her.  
  
"Annie," he said. "We need to talk."  
  
She looked at him from the bed. She nodded.  
  
"I'm worried about you," he said.  
  
She nodded again.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry."  
  
He didn't answer right away. He looked distant, like he was somewhere else.  
  
You too? she thought suddenly. You too? My sweet husband, it's happened to you too?  
  
"Would it help to talk to someone?" he asked.  
  
She knew what he meant, knew it was pointless. Talking wouldn't help. But Annie was thinking now, thinking carefully. Eric was an optimist. He always saw the good, and he could be convinced that there was good somewhere even when there wasn't. He was weak. But he was worth saving because she knew that above all else, she loved him.  
  
She loved them all.  
  
I will do what it takes, she thought to herself.  
  
And she nodded.  
  
#  
  
She had to teach the next day, and it went well. The students were all well behaved, and they all nodded as she spoke on respect as a moral duty. She gave them some reading and a short assignment and sent them on their way, then came straight home. Ruthie prattled as they drove and she smiled at Ruthie, a sincere smile because Ruthie was the strong one, the smart one. There was a lot the others could learn from Ruthie.  
  
At home now, Annie hugged the twins and kissed them and listened to Mary tell her that they had been no trouble at all today. She hugged Mary then and apologized again, held her close, gave her some money and told her to take Ruthie out for some ice cream.  
  
"Treat her," she said. "You two deserve some time together."  
  
Mary smiled and accepted. She would be all right now.  
  
After the girls were gone Annie left the twins for a few minutes and walked into Eric's office. She knew what she sought, knew just where to find it. Eric was very organized and this was very important. Pulling out the file she needed, she left the office and took a laundry basket from atop the washing machine. The twins smiled as she returned to them, following her happily as she made a sweep of the house, room to room, gathering the things she needed, one by one, into the basket.  
  
The living room was her last stop. She set Sam and David on the couch, went to the fireplace and opened the screen. There was some ash in there, left over from last winter, but it was otherwise clean. This would work fine.  
  
Annie took the file, opened it. She read the top of the first piece of paper there.  
  
CERTIFICATE OF BIRTH  
  
LUCY CAMDEN  
  
Annie Camden brought up a match, struck it on the rough stone of the fireplace, blinked as it caught. Then she took the birth certificate from the folder and held it to the flame, holding it by the corner as she watched it burn. As she cast the burning corner into the fireplace, she looked down at the opened folder, at the records of immunizations, the old report cards, the high school diploma. And as she picked this up and reached for another match, Annie Camden looked over at the laundry basket.  
  
She would have to take the photos out of their frames, but she knew that her family wouldn't be home for a few hours, so there was time. 


End file.
